That flesh’d vizard – does it decay,
So much alike the ******.
My mortal stature – emaciated –
Forthwith; it’s programmed.

Do those lines – like trenches deep –
Carve moats for tears to flow.
And do they flow – like rivers march
My countenance; fallowed.

To rejuvenate – vials and vials,
Ointments in plethora.
I rub and rub, till the vizard cracks
Lo! Restore my aura.

Pseudoscience, falsehoods galore –
A vice of fiscality.
Like a cyst, does it tremor,
Melting my vanity.

Visage – deep – a pick inside my soul.
Those flakes of ego crumb.
A mien so ******, yet so loved…
Can they not see how numb
                         I am.

A great throne,
An intricate dynasty,
An unhappy people,
A trigger-hair,
A downfall.

And so that beat –
Monotonous as it is,
Intended for those partygoers,
Licentious – so depraved.

But for me – does it mean –
Something wholly different.
So close to divine – and yet
Completely unable to touch.

To me it’s you – you are who.
It is someone so afar.
But when I intend to listen,
Can I not last one minute.

Blank vignettes – so plain –
A sudden bolt of light.
I see it, your face,
On that winsome night.

Though blurry may it be.
So – beauty does glow
Despite my tripping
Ever stumbling – although.

Drugged – sway
Light – sway
Move – sway
Dance – sway
Please – stay…
               But you don’t.
                      You leave me on that bed.